Outlast
by CiderApples
Summary: The secret to his success has always been longevity. He can outlast her.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim these characters and their universe, which are wholly owned and operated by others.

* * *

**Outlast**

* * *

The secret to his success had always been longevity. Perseverance. Tireless, dogged endurance, just staying upright long enough for eras to change and paradigms to shift. A horse with its head facing the wind, he did his best to be streamlined in the face of resistance.

_I can withstand you, _he thought as he stared into her flighty wide eyes. He sat over her on the hospital bed, his face open and dark to give respite to her frantic stare. Her mouth raced to tell him things she didn't think she remembered, and she clutched at his lapels, his jacket, his shirt. He kept a hand firmly beneath her shoulder and another against her burning head. In moments of tenderness, he was moved to stroke her hair; it smelled still of smoke and rubber and vaguely of blood, which turned his stomach momentarily and had him squeezing her shoulder more tightly than he wanted to. It was a tiny allowance, considering _all_ the things he wanted.

He wanted to pile her up into his arms in the hospital blankets and press his rough cheek against her forehead. He wanted to break out his inner street fighter on the doctor who had all but pronounced her dead. He wanted to lay the bodies of her enemies at her feet, his chest heaving and covered in their hard-won effluvia. He wanted to inhale deeply from the pool between her clavicle and trapezius.

He set his jaw and felt his teeth vice as he tensed against the rising of his chest into his throat. Sometimes it took so little to resist, and sometimes it was like clawing his way to the surface of a mudslide. Hot blood fizzed through his neck and head, and his vision of her seemed to float and waver in front of him. Something molecular hummed in his ears. Sometimes it was too much.

He wanted to run away to Dubai and not come back. He wanted to ask Walter to give him something to make him forget; Peter knew that he could.

She reached for his face and he shut his eyes, being still for her touch, but her hand fluttered away at the last moment. His face didn't show his disappointment. His features remained soft, and the shadows in his eyes made him seem gentle and half-veiled. In her panic, his soft darkness was a fine escape from the harsh scrutiny of the police.

_I can outlast you._

_

* * *

_

Olivia's third mug of coffee was only drops-left at 11:30am, but her head hit her palms at noon anyway.

"You should hit the hay, dear," Walter said.

When she objected to going home, Walter pointed to a flattened spot of hay next to Gene.

"I do it whenever I need a little shut-eye," he said with a shrug. Peter caught her eye and grinned sardonically.

Olivia closed her open mouth with a slight downward tug of her head. "Right," she said. Rubbing her eyes, she stood and swung her jacket over her shoulder. "Anyone else for coffee?"

"Half-caff caramel latte," Astrid called from behind an array of test tubes, her goggles reflecting a sublimating ultracoolant. "Extra hot. _Extra_ hot."

Peter sauntered to Olivia, reached for her free hand and held it up loosely at the wrist. They both watched her fingers' caffeinated tremble. Peter squinted and half-smiled. "Yeah, you sure do need a refill," he drawled. "You know, most people _sleep_ when they're tired. I mean, at least once a week." Once a week. But it had been weeks since the accident, and he didn't know the number of nights she'd slept, through the night or at all. The cuts on her face had healed but everything she did reminded him that her blood was so close to the surface of her skin. So easy to spill. He couldn't envelop her, but he could try.

"Thanks," she said, tilting her head.

He rolled his eyes and headed back to his desk to grab his jacket. "Let's go."

Walter smiled and began to hum over his equations as they walked out the door.

* * *

"Driving without sleep is more dangerous than driving legally drunk," Peter said as they walked out to the car. She shot him a sidelong look. "Just so you know why you aren't driving," he said. She acquiesced without argument and slid into the passenger side of their government-issue SUV. Peter started the car and it felt so _normal_ to Olivia, sitting there in her leather perch. The car smell and the engine vibrations and the sun filtering through the window hypnotized her as Peter drove through the fall streets of Boston. Outside air came in through the vents and she could smell someone's fireplace. She closed her eyes and leaned into the side panel, and didn't even notice that Peter was driving in circles as she fell asleep.

She woke up feeling warm, although it was much darker outside than she remembered. With a small jolt, she raised her head. "Peter? What's going on?" There was something heavy on her arm: a jacket. Leather jacket. Peter's jacket. And then Peter's hand, on her shoulder, and then Peter's voice:

"Hey, it's okay." And then Peter's face, quietly smiling.

She relaxed and let her head fall back against the seat.

"How're you feeling?" His voice was low and calm. Olivia yawned in response.

"Better."

"How long since you slept the night?"

She looked down and fussed with his jacket.

"Hey," he said with an aggrandizing gesture to his chest and his most self-deprecating expression, "you're talking to a crown prince of insomnia." She gave him a little smile but said nothing in response. He sat back in his seat and looked softly at her while she woke up bit by bit. She looked through the windows at the dark world and neon windows.

"Where are we?"

"Where else?" he asked, and pointed over his shoulder at a bright art-deco sign. "Food."

Olivia began to say something that Peter just _knew _would be contrary, and he cut her off. "No protest, or no curly fries." He opened his door into the night and headed around to open hers.

"Poor Astrid," she said, not sorry at all.


	2. Chapter 2

The curly fries had come as promised, crispy and shining with fry-grease. Olivia devoured them recklessly, oversalting and drowning them in ketchup.

"Let's get more," she said as she neared the bottom of the basket.

"How about something that might count as real food?" Peter said, nudging the menu across the patchy Formica tabletop.

Fifteen minutes later, an enticingly large cheeseburger floated through the swinging kitchen doors, flanked by more curly fries.

"That _was_ the bargain," Olivia said as she started in on the fries first.

"I didn't know you were such an ardent fan of the noble curly fry," Peter said, but his face was illuminated with the comfort he derived from watching her color come back as she ate. He wasn't hungry, but he took enthusiastic bites of whatever it was on the plate in front of him to encourage her.

"You're looking better," he said.

"I _feel _better," she said, starting in on the burger. Ketchup pooled on the plate. Peter reached for a stray fry and was shocked to hear her growl at him. He cocked his head.

"Did you just..." he began, and she snorted and dipped her head, laughing and giddy with the insulin rush.

Peter sat back into the booth, resting his forearms on the cool table and letting his eyes graze the sights of the diner. He felt, more than saw, Olivia's satisfaction with him. He would have been satisfied to draw the moment out indefinitely, but bite by bite the mammoth cheeseburger disappeared. _Ah, well. All good things._

"Ready?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her. She nodded, wiping ketchup from the corner of her mouth.

"Thanks," she said.

"Thank the FBI," he grinned, flashing the Bureau account card as he went to the counter to pay.

Olivia inhaled the last of her Cherry Coke from the golden plastic cup and stood, stretching beside the booth. Something sloughed from her shoulders and she looked down into the seat and saw Peter's jacket in a heap. She was riveted for a moment, unable to look away from the soft-tanned sea of black. He had put it over her as she slept. He had maybe even touched her as she slept, his hands grazing some tiny part of her chin or arms. He had been there as she'd slept, maybe for hours.

Picking up the jacket, she took her first deep breath since before she'd started eating and she realized she'd been smelling him since she woke up, in tiny drifts of scent. It was on her. The jacket. She hadn't even thought to smell it while it was covering her, and now she couldn't think of a credible reason to do it, although the desire was sudden and intense.

"Should we sit down and start fresh?" Peter's voice behind her startled her. "I hear the fries are good."

Olivia turned, pushing the jacket at his chest. She frowned slightly as she wrestled with whether to ask him if he had really sat in a parked car for hours just so she could take a nap. And why. Although there were precious few answers to that question, each one its own kind of discomfitting.

"Thanks," she said lamely, offering the jacket again. He took it and was slightly concerned about the distant expression on her face.

"Hey," he said, angling to meet her eyes, which were glued to the linoleum parquet. Her gaze flickered up to him momentarily, and he saw chagrin and unease overtaking her prior delight. He spread his arms. "What did I do?" he asked good-naturedly. He wanted it to be about him. He wanted it so badly to be about him. _Let it have made her uneasy to have slept so close to me. Let it have set her off-balance to wake up under my jacket._ At some point, if his charm failed him, he knew unease would be the thing to force the confrontation that could bring them together. He could wait, he _could _outlast her, but that didn't mean he was keen on it happening.

With his arms outstretched, Peter looked disarming, but at the same time he extended to the edges of her field of vision. How easily it could be a threat, and just as easily the moment before an embrace. "Nothing," she said. "This...was nice of you."

They looked at each other for another moment in silence, each gauging the other. Peter dropped his arms. He handed the jacket back to her.

"Hold on to this. It got cold since I abducted you," he said. He anticipated her refusal and before she could argue he'd started outside, strides ahead of her and fishing for his keys. She was grateful he'd saved her from having to go through the motions; in truth she'd had no rebuttal worth a damn. Taking her time, she slipped the sleeves over her arms, ducking her head as it swept around her back to catch her breath in the collar.

The ride back to the lab was warm and sweet. Peter had been quick to dispel Olivia's momentary awkwardness with wordy jokes about what Walter would be doing when they returned. Olivia relaxed enough to recline her seat, albeit slightly, and rest her head as she looked out on the blur of townhouses and taillights.

It was so different to feel safe.

Their turnoff approached. The green road signs flashed past her.

"Peter," she murmured. He heard the softness in her voice.

"Yes?"

"Let's drive."

And just like that, their exit sign flashed and vanished into the past.


	3. Chapter 3

The hum of pavement under their wheels made her feel removed from the earth. Orbiting. She glanced at the dashboard clock. 8:15pm. Given an hour in the diner, and having been driving now for just under two, she figured she'd slept for four hours. That brought her grand total for the week up to twenty-one. _Which would be ideal if it were Wednesday instead of Friday._ She realized, also, that Peter had been in this car since noon, with the exception of their dinner. _I'm sorry,_ she thought, but she felt too comfortable to stop taking advantage of his generosity.

College radio was humming ambiently through the speakers. Olivia could feel the bass though her seat belt, purring against her sternum. She was sleepy again. Every pulse of vibration sent her lower in her seat, helping her eyelids earthward.

* * *

She woke up disoriented for the second time to Peter whispering her name. He was lightly flipping the lapel of his jacket against her cheek. Slitting her eyes, she peered out of the car to see...home. She couldn't deny her disappointment.

"Sleepy," he said, like it was her name. "Let's get you to bed." Her eyes opened at that, and he laughed. "I, for my part, will be getting you as far as your front door." He swirled back out the driver's side door as if taken by wind, appearing at her window moments later. He knocked at the glass. "This'll work better if you're not leaning on the door when I open it," he said through the closed window, his voice muted. She sighed and shuffled upright. When he opened the door for her, the night cold surprised her.

Delicate. She felt delicate. Not physically; she rarely felt that way. But as if her wellness were balanced in a precarious position, such that every action she took now would reverberate through her body, her mind, her life. When she stepped from the car, it was cautious and overly gentle, even holding the armrest for her dismount. She saw Peter's hand in front of her, offered. _Just what has self-sufficiency ever done for you? _she thought, and reached out.

Peter watched her wobble forth from the SUV. He'd held out his arm for her and was astonished when she took it.

"Hey. Easy, easy," he whispered, the words coming unbidden from his chest. Feeling like a dog with ears pricked, he began to _watch_ her. Gathering clues. What did she need? What did he have to give? He saw the pulse in her neck, counting the beats. Watched her pupils react. Listened for her breathing, which sounded normal to him but, considering the situations she'd breathed through, almost anything would.

Olivia walked forward, told herself to just keep walking forward. She felt too permeable to look around. She had no reflexes, no pretenses in the grey area between sleep and waking. _God knows what grey area I'm in,_ she thought. _Sleep and waking are too simple._

Wind whisked and rattled brittle leaves on the sidewalks. She could dissolve into the crisp night air like a crumbling leaf, if she let herself. Her heel rolled on a pebble on the sidewalk and she stumbled. Peter said, "whoa," and she looked at him because he'd spoken, and she saw his face, and she held her breath as she righted herself but the damage had been done. She felt she could see his intentions through his eyes, could read his thoughts without trying, and after all they'd been through, it wouldn't surprise her if all that were the truth.

Like a freeze-frame, his face and all its care and concern stuck in her fuzzy consciousness like an icepick. It was not the male face of her childhood, contorted with rage. Nor was it the face of her bosses at the Bureau, glazed with suspicion and condescension. Instead it was open, straightforward, unfolded...she blinked to disperse fatigued tears. It was perhaps one of the first sincere male faces she'd seen...well, if John had been a lie, _ever._ It was touching. If she was honest with herself, it was arousing for reasons she could understand better if she weren't so unendingly tired. She couldn't stop the blush that rose in her chest; she counted on him being kind enough not to notice.

Peter had assumed navigation responsibilities, leading her by her featherlight arm. It looked like she was still half-sleeping as she drifted toward her door. He was watching the ground closely, on Pebble Alert, when it hit him. Rather, when it rained around him like fallout. He felt his forehead warm, his thoughts become sticky, his heart rate increase. He almost laughed when he realized. He'd had enough experience in his life to detect when he was being drugged, even inadvertently. _Especially inadvertently. Not rain nor snow nor sleep deprivation stops a human female from pheremone-bombing innocent civilians. _He grinned. _Well. Well, well._

When they reached the door, Olivia sagged against the jamb. She looked at Peter with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Tired, yes. Also, something else.

Peter looked back at her, his arm now unnecessarily hooked under her shoulder. It put him close to her, and now that the struggle for balance had ended, there was only their proximity. Clouds of their breath curled from their mouths and noses to form smoky cauls over each others' faces. Olivia stared up into him, lacking the energy to be self-conscious.

He saw her blue irises engulfed by inky pupils. The flush on her chest had reached above the worn leather collar. Her breathing was high and shallow, in sharp contrast to the deep pulls of sleep. Her shoulders had dropped, allowing her chest to rise toward him. For a normal person, to read her would be a cakewalk. For a genius, it was a moral quandary.

_I can end this now, _Peter realized. _Right now._


	4. Chapter 4

He _could_ end it, that much was true. A small dip of his head, a gentle prop of her chin, a reassuring word spoken in low tones and she would be enticed and willing. He was so well-practiced, it wouldn't be hard.

_Well-practiced_, he thought, and grimaced in spite of himself. _I should be proud of that._ Instead, it sucked his confidence into a void. If he induced her, and he absolutely could, then he would never see the moment that would put his mind at ease. Would never see the tilt of her eyebrows as she made the decision that he was worth it. Never experience that quintessential moment of insecurity as he realized she was leaning closer to him, going to kiss him, finally.

Suddenly, vividly, Peter felt six years old. He remembered the jolt that accompanied the leaps in his mental development. The way he felt when he realized the meaning of infinity, the way he could only hold the thought in his mind for a fraction of a second before he could no longer understand the concept, deciding eventually that infinity must exist all at once, independently of time. He remembered cooking pancakes for the first time at two years old, following the recipe that he'd just learned he could _read. How proud he'll be when he sees_, except that Walter never saw, and the pancakes grew soggy in the cottage air and the plate sat on the table and molded over because his mother hadn't the heart to throw them away. He remembered a fever, how the sheets were never dry, how everything spun. His father was a doctor, he knew, and his father could cure him. Why wasn't he there? Why hadn't he brought the medicine? And as his internal temperature inflamed him, sent peacock spots into his eyes and dimmed the world altogether, Peter felt alone and lost and worthless.

Now, Peter chased. Everything. He waited for nobody, for nothing. He pursued, cornered and devoured, and he was superlative. Now there was no question of worth. If it was desirable, he had it. There was no other way around. He didn't miss trying to find people to value him. He knew, anyway, how many people in the world would vet him, and he could count that number on one finger. _If I could count myself._

Romanticizing the lone wolf was no problem. It was all so archetypal, his was light work to convince women to swoon. His employers, too, were easily swayed by his rugged, no-strings approach. Everything came easily. He could snipe his needs as they surfaced. Over time, he began to admire himself. How different he'd become. How much distance he'd put between himself and the fevered, needy child grasping with empty hands.

He had economized, like a hunter, and used every part of his animal. He'd exploited his intelligence, his able body, his sociopathic charisma, mining until he'd exhausted the vein. When he slept, he went deep under, dreaming black.

For decades, he hadn't stopped.

Now he was planted.

Now he was scared of himself. A lone wolf in the wild was all well and good, but mixed with the villagers? _Fantastic. _And yet it was all he knew to do. Now every instinct he had was useless, or worse, backwards. He wanted to run, all the time. Surrounded by people he would see every day, there was nobody disposable, no prey animal to fulfill him momentarily. And, to make everything just _perfect_, here was his father. The original human merchant. Reminding him every day of the instability of his past, and that garage sale bin from which he just couldn't remove himself.

"Peter?"

He blinked to attention. Olivia looked more awake. He supposed the cold would do that. She was squinting at him across that thirteen-inch space between them, her head to one side, and he could see that the vulnerability of sleep hadn't yet worn away. Those eyes. He could feel the chemical compounds still pouring forth from the hollows of her neck. It would be so easy. It would feel so good. His fingertips were tingling. _See, the problem is that the wolf is a deeply social animal, after all. It's the lone human you have to watch out for._

"Yeah," he huffed quietly. He would not herd her towards anything.

"Did you want...to..." she trailed off. She wasn't sure what he was waiting for, or what he wanted. He hadn't let go of her arm or asked for his jacket, and he certainly didn't look like a guy who was going to make a move on her. He looked like he was going to cry.

"I have to bring dad home," he said quickly. Olivia opened her mouth to speak and stopped on a dime. _Dad._

"What?" she said, her face leaning into his.

"Jerry Lewis needs his bathtub sleep," he said.

Olivia nodded. _Dad. _She wasn't sure whether to repeat it.

"Okay." She lifted her arm from his, slowly, as if to ameliorate the separation. Smiling apologetically, she slipped his leather jacket from her shoulders. "Thanks," she said. He took it with a curt bow, backing away and pivoting toward the waiting car.

"We'll swing by for you in the morning," he called back.

"I can cab it," she said.

"What, you don't like clown cars?" He pulled a sad face. She smiled. "Extra coconut cream pie for you," he said, leveraging into the car.

Olivia watched him pull away, then shuffled wearily inside. The gibbous moon forced blue light into the rooms by the bucketful. Everything looked peaceful, dreamy, and serene. Yet the longer she stood there, the more awake she felt. She could hear the blood in her ears, humming like the ocean in a shell, and it was - and wasn't - like flies climbing the wall and her neighbors fighting over wine. It was loud and important and omnipresent but it was normal, a harbinger of the not-nearly-supernatural.


	5. Chapter 5

She didn't know what had changed.

That night, in the car: maybe she'd never really awakened. Not fully.

And maybe he'd left something, too, on her doorstep with that softly-dropped _dad, _and what it had been was a shackle. Gradually Peter was unfolding, stretching into the empty places. His face registered pain more frequently, but it was better than the angry misery it replaced.

Although he still looked at her with predator eyes, sharp and focused, there was an elegiac rise in his expression that let light hit his eyes. It made him look more accessible than he was, but he was working on that.

He sought her out in any space, sometimes with only a glance, but it was more than he had done for anyone in years. At the beginning it felt like _checking in_, and then like _keeping tabs_, and only recently had it become neither of those things. He wasn't sure what it had _become_, but there it was. It connected him to her. He'd thought it would feel like a leash but it hadn't, although part of him yearned for that yoke, aching to pull the plow under her rein. _I can pull so much harder than you ask me to._

With Walter he was softer, and though Walter's scolds and criticisms sunk deeper into him, so did his praises. For the first time since childhood, Peter began to osmotically absorb his father's pride and joy.

And it wasn't because he wanted to be a better man; it was necessity. The frenetic manipulator he'd created was languishing like a stalled shark. There was material within Peter to rebuild himself: it was corrupted in a Gordian Knot that, unraveled, might measure the infinite. Yet adaptability was a strong suit of his, and Peter wanted to live and breathe. He _could _adapt. He _would_ adapt. And so he pulled at himself, drawing out the long-abandoned pieces to test.

The shift in him was slight, but tectonically significant.

But.

She could still feel the caginess radiating from the tilt of his shoulder blades.

She saw that anger was still quickest to surface on his face.

She still had to wait for those moments of truly unguarded quiet, and they were always at night.

She realized she ought to be afraid of the dark by now, but all the really gory, messy, life-and-limb events happened in broad daylight. Night felt like a safety blanket. It gave them license to be unafraid, being unafraid let them relax, and being relaxed was good for them. She suspected Peter felt the same way, because he was finding her more and more often during the darkest hours of the day.

Maybe it was an acknowledgment, she'd thought. _Night came. We survived day. Good for us._ Maybe it was more: loneliness, the friends he didn't have and the enemies he did, or to escape from his father, even with the improvements in their communication. Sometimes Olivia flattered herself, wondering if it were intelligent conversation he was seeking. She wasn't a genius and she knew that, but she could pun with the best of them and maybe sometimes he craved that repartee.

Olivia had long made peace with her reasons for being so readily available after nightfall. Most were innocuous, plain, and more normal than she thought her life would allow. For example, she liked to be listened-to. She liked not eating alone. She liked camaraderie and the warmth of another body in the car, even if that body liked to keep the windows cracked in winter while she slowly froze. Her other reasons were less platonic, but she enjoyed them just the same. She'd given up her anxieties about whether he might catch her staring, at least in the car. The car was their insular world, a parallel universe they'd created themselves. _Besides, if he hasn't already caught me, he isn't the genius they say he is._

He suited her: rough where she needed it, alive where she slowed down, resourceful when she had the ambition. The way he _knew _things, he drew the world from the air. She admired him, which is to say she'd appraised him highly, in her own feral way. He looked comfortable with a gun and on solid footing with his fists. _He can protect me_. And: _he is worthy of my risks._ In no small way, his presence encouraged her to walk into burning houses and deprivation tanks, positive that he would drag her out in time. She felt vital_, _daring and immortal.

She recognized, because she felt he demanded it, that he was separate from her - not a partner in the lawful sense. Instead they were moving together by accident, circling each other, watching. Nothing was owed, no debts were drawn, and the saving of life was mutually forgiven. Sometimes she was frustrated by the distance; at times it felt unnecessarily cold. Other times she felt proud that she held his attention though there was nothing to bind him.

_But how long until we diverge?_ she asked herself. She did her best to keep that question in mind, but it did nothing to diminish the part of her that needed him, the part of her that grew every day.


	6. Chapter 6

They were in the car again. They always started out in the car.

Well, technically they always started out in the lab, and either she would glance at him or he would glance at her, or Walter would put on some horrible Bossa Nova and they'd know it was time to go. Their excuses were flimsy, but Astrid never asked any questions beyond, "should I bring Walter home tonight?" Walter would say something unusually brief, like, "good night, son," and not even ask for cheese curds or Mr. Pibb or Cheer Wine.

Tonight, for the first time, Peter couldn't think of a reason to give an excuse. Instead he palmed Astrid's shoulder as she sat at her computer.

"Will you..." he began, realizing halfway through that it might be a rude to actually _ask_ someone to take care of Walter. He started again, with, "_Would _you..." but it didn't sound any less imposing. He felt awkward, like he was hanging a sock on his dormitory door knob.

She looked up at him, smiling. She patted his hand. "I've got him," she said. _Bless her sweet little face_.

Astrid bit her lip as she went back to her analyses. She'd felt his racing heart beart through the thumb he rested on her shoulder bone. _Indeed,_ she thought.

Peter walked tentatively toward Olivia. She was highlighting paper from an inch-tall stack, and he hadn't really seen her face all afternoon. It was hard to pull her away from a task but he needed to go. He needed to get out and he needed to take her with him.

"Hey," he said, his voice more tense than he wanted. She jumped a little in her seat and capped her highlighter.

"Hey," she said, swiveling in her chair. Her face was neutral, blank and impossible to read. He furrowed his eyebrows. He thought she'd be happier to see him as he was, ready to leave. He was struck by the strange idea that she might not want to come with him. He hadn't anticipated that. He had his coat in his hand, and he felt a little lame.

"I'm going for a drive," he said quietly. She looked up at him, still poker-faced, and narrowed her eyes. Thinking something, though he couldn't guess what. Olivia took a long but shallow breath and let her head drop to her chest. When she looked back up, he saw she was resolved.

"Okay," she said, and grabbed her coat.

* * *

The night was black and slightly violent. Clouds were lit in pink from Boston's skyscrapers, but the new moon sent no light to the ground. Gusts of January wind made the trees whip, their mostly leafless branches clicking and knocking over the empty roar of air. It was cold but dry, a night for ghosts.

The man and the woman made a path to their car inside streetlight circles. The temperature and the wind made them feel alive. The darkness made them comfortable, but they still felt like fugitives getting into the car. They'd been doing this for months, and had yet to name it.

"I was thinking French Toast and diner coffee," he said into the silence after the slamming of doors.

Olivia nodded and looked out the window. He felt different to her.

She hadn't seen head nor tail of him all day. Usually that meant bad news. She'd felt him approach her in the lab, and even his footsteps were scared of her. She'd known what he'd wanted; heard his keys jingling in his jacket. As he'd stood there behind her, she'd tracked her highlighter across the page and debated whether she should go with him. She'd sensed his anxiety and hadn't want to hear the thing he'd undoubtedly been steeling himself to say to her. When he'd dropped the soft "hey" into her ear, though, she was toast. She couldn't refuse time alone with him. _Their _time. Her head sank to hide her foreboding expression, and then she was ready.

Now they were in the car, and apparently the plan was diner food. Though she remained quiet and ready to hear him, he gave no indication he had anything to say. He just looked ahead, kept his foot on the gas and drove.

They arrived at the diner having spoken no words. Peter pulled into a spot and killed the engine, but neither of them moved to exit the vehicle. Olivia occupied herself pulling at the hem of her shirt, folding and straightening in an endless stream of business. Peter looked at her.

"They make this stuff with challah. They make the challah, too," he said, the words accelerating out of his mouth and sounding much too loud in the silent space. "That's the secret...to..." and he stopped.

She shifted in her seat, fixing him with a pointed stare. They were quiet for a moment, giving nothing. She folded first, sitting back into the passenger's seat and unbuckling her seat belt. _You underestimate me, Peter. _It was like he thought she was stupid. She _was _an FBI agent. She knew how to read people, and he was being so obvious. Olivia was not in the mood for his deflection.

He was flushed, in eighteen-degree weather. He was breathing fast and fidgeting with the key in the ignition. He was anxious. He smelled different, like fear sweat. It didn't seem good. Usually he was happier to get into the car with her. Usually it relaxed him, or at least bolstered his mood. Now he just looked in the mood to flee, and the thing he wanted to talk about was french-fucking-toast. It disappointed her most because it destroyed the illusion that somehow, their night rides were bubbles of honesty in their secretive lives. It disappointed her because she'd allowed him to see how she felt and in _two months_ he hadn't reciprocated.

He'd changed, sure. He had his kinder, gentler moments. But he was still his own animal, and sometimes those niceties barely covered his instinctual roughness. She'd thought she was waiting him out, but there had been _nothing _on his face, nothing in those black eyes to tell her to keep waiting. Not since October, in front of her apartment, had she seen the raw sincerity that had brought her nearly to tears.

And now here he was, in their car, their safe place, and he was agitated and she was sure something was breaking. _Why had he asked her to come?_ In her chest there was a cold fear that he had asked her to come so he could tell her there would be no more nights. That he'd reached the end of his tether and snapped it. He'd warned her two years ago that he never stayed anywhere for long. She supposed that included the car. She supposed, angrily, that it might include her.

"'Livia..." he began. He tried to feel her out, folding her name into the single syllable that he sent ahead of himself like a shield. He would have reached out for her placatingly if he weren't so sure his hands were shaking. Had he done this so wrong already?

"So where are you going?"

Peter's mouth opened, then closed. He tilted his head. "What?"

There was an uncomfortable, protracted silence. Peter worriedly tracked her face, watching every feature for clues. She seemed so controlled.

"You have something set up?" she asked. She asked the question as if inquiring about a family vacation. If he didn't know her, he could have seen it as purely professional. But he _did_ know her, and he knew that she was _barely _professional, and that's how he saw through to the anger and accusation.

"Set up?" he repeated. He released the steering wheel and leaned closer to her, as if he could barely hear. "Sweetheart, as soon as you tell me what you think I plan on doing, I can resolutely deny it."

She looked straight ahead. She didn't look disappointed, or relieved, or more angry. She didn't look less angry, either. Peter felt completely adrift.

"You're not in the mood for the Diner," he said. He didn't look to her for a response, but she yielded a toneless _no_. "Great," he said. "Me neither." Peter let eventualities play through his head, evaluating, and realized he had no useful data for a situation in which Olivia was shutting down and his best intentions were going up in smoke. He clutched the wheel again. "Where to, then?" he asked. He didn't know if she would give him any more words, but he'd be grateful for even one.

"If you're not leaving, it's something else," she said. Peter felt a rush of frustration forceful enough to turn up his volume.

"I consider myself a mostly sometimes patient guy, Olivia, but you could at least try me before you hang me," he growled.

Olivia reached across the car and plucked his hand from the wheel. Although his grip was white-knuckled, she moved him with barely a touch. He watched his hand float with hers toward her body. Without meaning to, he nervously licked his lips. Halfway between them, her fingers stopped his wrist, leaving his hand in midair: evidence. They both watched his fingers shaking. He remembered the mirror of this event with despair. How light the mood had been, then. How different it felt, now.

Staring at Peter's trembling hand, another potentiality occurred to Olivia. She saw her own hand, uncontrollable as she worked with her gun in the hospital, useless as she tried to tie her bowling shoes. Her throat jumped.

"Oh God, Peter, did Walter send you, too?"

"What?" Peter's eyebrows raised high. Confusion was making him insane. "No! 'Livia -"

He had to get out. The air was stale. He felt filmy with anxiety and the rules he used to navigate Olivia were failing. How had this whole thing turned on him? _But we're in the CAR,_ he felt like screaming. After all he'd changed, all he'd done with her, all she could do was think of him in exactly the old ways. The ugliest ways. The ways in which they both knew he could fail her. _Check, please._

A shudder ran up through his ribs, his diaphragm forcing breath from him in a fury. Peter hooked the door handle and swung out of the car into the night. He slammed the door behind him and Olivia watched through the cloudy window as he reeled out into the desolate parking lot. She was left with the sound of her breathing, her pulse ticking in her throat, and the possibility that she had been wrong.

Peter walked, and turned, and walked some more. His breath clouded like horses' in winter, coming forth in deep huffs. He was overflowing with nervous electricity and the best he could do was work it off. Calming his mind was only marginally impossible, and he just let it spin, thinking everything at once. He didn't look back at the car. He didn't want to know if she was coming for him; he didn't want to know if she wasn't.

She wasn't.

She was sitting there, still, watching his silhouette wander the asphalt. He looked mad. Mad, as in angry. Maybe mad, as in madman. _Crazy apple doesn't fall far from the crazy tree,_ she thought, and instantly felt bad for it.

The cold was working faster than anything else to make Peter feel grounded again. His teeth had started to chatter, and he knew it wasn't _just _the cold but that was good enough. He was holding his respirations down and he felt like he could reasonably impersonate someone who wasn't completely lost. Fisting and releasing his hands, he looked up at the sky. He could see Orion. Walter had always said that Orion was a physicist flanked by two Van de Graaff generators. _Why oh why did I believe him,_ Peter thought, but he smiled momentarily. And then he started to cry.

Olivia shivered. With the engine stopped and the other 98.6-degree heater vanished from the car, the temperature was dropping quickly. She saw he'd left the keys but didn't want to touch them. Peter was still out there, stargazing, it looked like. Olivia's uncertainty about the way she'd perceived him kept her from feeling anything definitive. She might have been annoyed, or impatient, or deeply ashamed, but all she could feel for sure was the chill creeping up from the chassis. She pushed her hands between her legs for warmth, but it only numbed her thighs.

Tears slid over Peter's temples and were lost behind his ears. As long as he watched the stars, his head angled sharply toward the sky, there would be no wet tracks on his cheeks. As long as he watched the stars, he would think of Walter, and he might cry forever. He had so many vivid images stored for reference: pictures he never thought he'd see, and pictures he thought-every time-he'd never see again. Walter cradling the Night of Desirable Objects. His earnest self-invitation. Tears in his eyes. _Dad._ Peter hiccupped. Right now his father was being driven home-alone-by his lab assistant, instead of his son. Peter remembered with stickpins in his heart the abbreviated goodnights that Walter gave him when he was going 'for a drive.' Walter knew what Peter wanted. He'd honored it because he thought it was the right thing. And now Peter was feeling it disintegrate- his very own supernova.

Olivia wouldn't grab the keys. They were dangling from the ignition, exactly as he'd left them. She was cold, really cold, but she didn't want the heat the engine could give her. The cold on her skin was easily fixed, and she could wait for that. What she couldn't abide was the freezing worry that he wouldn't come back - not to the car, specifically, but to her and to the night rides and into her confidence. She watched him standing, unmoving, where he'd been for five minutes now. If he took any longer, she would go get him.

Just one more minute.

One more chance to outlast him.

One more chance to for him to make the decision, and for her to be absolved of the responsibility for what would happen.

Peter took a deep breath, long and shaky. He raised his eyebrows, releasing tension in his face. He wiped his temples, raking the wet hair into order. He sniffled, cleared his throat, and turned back to the car.

Olivia watched him coming. He looked calmer, but that didn't mean much. He could look any way he wanted to with five minutes' preparation.

She recoiled from the fresh push of frigid air that rushed at her when he opened the door. He slipped inside, his seat exhaling beneath him, and when he shut the door everything was silent again. He was turned toward her, looking at her, the neon of the diner coloring his skin. She accepted his stare, paying her pennance, willing to see what he wanted to show her.

The pink and red lights caught the slickness of the hair above his ears, and she tracked it to his wet eyelashes and saw that he'd been crying. He watched her perceive it, and didn't care. They were in the car. This nakedness was the whole tormented point.

He let the soundlessness permeate for a minute, and then he reached out fluidly to slip his freezing cold hand around the back of her neck.


	7. Chapter 7

Olivia held her breath, in part from his icy fingers on her skin and in part because his face was so wide-open she could not anticipate what we was going to do. He looked as sincere as she ever remembered him, and it sent her straight back into the memory in which he'd cared for her, in which she was so certain they were feeling the same feelings that she didn't try to hide her desire. She tried to suppress the electric fluttering in her chest, but it was a biological response she couldn't temper.

She would forgive him for all his secrets and all his anxiety if he was planning to kiss her right now.

Peter could feel her body jumping, here and there, under his hands. Tiny shivers and tics in her shoulders, ribs and back and he recognized her adrenaline flood. He felt bad for her. She must know he could tell, must feel like a specimen pinned in front of him. _Hold on, sweetheart, I'm about to get brave._

"I love my father," Peter said. He shook his head slightly, his eyebrows raised. "I _love _him."

Olivia experienced anger, its own chemicals added to the mess of her blood. She was furious at the twitching of her muscles, and furious at his calm. At the same time she felt an unexpected swell of compassion, and envy toward the sheer _goodness_ of it all. _Yes. __**Your **__father is worth it._

"I'm bad at it," Peter continued, resting his free elbow on the steering column as he leaned into her. "I'm bad at loving my father. Do you know how ridiculous that is?" He dipped his head and sighed roughly, trying to escape her burning eyes. When he spoke, his words were hesitant and half-buried in his chest. "I'm having a hell of a time with it, actually." His mouth curled in a smile that wasn't. "I can't bargain with him, I can't buy him off and I can protect him, _maybe_, but not from everything. I definitely can't have sex with him. And that's pretty much my entire arsenal."

Olivia was slowly becoming miserable. If she weren't so invested in him she knew she could enjoy the delicacy of his confession. She was touched by this prodigal son story, but she knew if she weren't so selfish at the moment she'd be weeping- or trying not to, in her way. Something had happened to Peter, though, and he no longer seemed to care how she saw him. He looked back up at her and fixed her with those soft wolf eyes. Neither of them spoke. She tried her damnedest to hold her face still, but she had no idea what he was seeing.

"By the way you're looking at me I'm going to guess you're none too charmed by me right now," he said. Olivia produced a tight smile. "I thought you'd be..." he swayed his head, looking for the right word. _Proud_ was perhaps not the best choice at the moment. "...relieved. I mean, if I love him, I can't leave him, right? Also, the whole 'better person' thing..." Olivia looked at her hands, looking downright depressed. Peter tried to find her eyes again, trying to get her back. _What I'm saying here is you're the first person I've loved, really loved, since my father and I have nothing in place to deal with that. _

"Hey," he soothed. His hand on her neck lifted, and her head rose as if his hand had been a weight. He waited until her gaze flickered back to him. "I didn't know you liked the cold-hearted barbarian so much. I can pretend to hate anyone, anytime you want." He hoped she would smile but her face tightened again and he saw she was fathoms-deep. The adrenaline was leaving her. Her eyelids had dropped over her eyes, her shoulders had fallen and she was swaying slightly in her seat.

_Loved, Peter, _Olivia thought. _Loved, not liked._

"Sweetheart," he said, his eyes closing for a moment against the unexpected intimacy of her sadness. It wasn't the throwaway term of endearment he tacked onto sentences. It was a quiet, serious truth that he was using to name her.

Olivia felt his hands, both of them, rest gently on the top of her head, keeping her eyes down at the very moment she wanted to look at him, to see the look on his face as he'd said that. She felt him shift, felt him lean, and felt the heat at the part in her hair. Then, his mouth: a hot little gust of air before his lips barely grazed her. She felt, "I'm sorry," mumbled above her. Then his hands slid down over her ears and he was holding her beneath the jaw, his now-warmed palms against her cool cheeks. His face was so close to her.

He hunted her for direction, but she was chemically exhausted and had only the barest expressions on her face. Peter remembered the feeling himself: the insanity of the mental hospital, pulling his father out not once but twice. He remembered sitting at the bar after the fear and worry had taken his energy and left him hollow. There had been nobody there for him, then, but he was here for her now. He just didn't know what to _do. _He shook his head.

"Sweetheart, you gotta give me something to work with. I don't know how to love you, either," he said. It wasn't exactly how he'd planned to tell her tonight, but it's what had just come out of his mouth and he felt surprisingly comfortable with it.

Her eyes picked up, and she looked into the neon shadows on his face. Her mouth opened slightly and he thought she might speak, but she didn't. She had the force of will do this with him right now, to understand what he was saying, but not the energy to enjoy it. Sometimes she thought he was allergic to simplicity. Everything had to be as goddamned complicated as possible until she was destroyed by the stress of it. She felt manipulated.

"I'm tired, Peter. Why don't you take me home," she heard herself say. Peter's eyes narrowed in confusion, and maybe in fear. Olivia felt better, seeing that. _Sit on that, _she thought. She needed rest before she could do this properly, and it was rest he owed her. His fingers stiffened on her jaw and he pushed his face almost to touch her nose with his.

"'Livia?" His voice was suddenly tight, suddenly worried. "Talk to me."

"We had a nice talk," she said. "I'd like to go home."

His hands left her like a dream. She felt the car start. She looked over at him, sitting straight up in the driver's seat, his jaw clenched and his brain undoubtedly in overdrive.

Peter's deference to her was just barely overcoming his desire to pull over. He _knew_ she wanted him. At least he thought he knew. He shouldn't have tried to ease into it. He shouldn't have gotten so frustrated earlier. He'd thrown everything off.

Olivia looked at the window at Boston flashing by. She felt so calm now, in comparison to how she'd felt before. She was almost regretting not letting him keep talking, or kiss her.

The car pulled up in front of her apartment in an abrupt stop. Peter unbuckled his seat belt and was out of the car in a flash. He paced around her as she let herself out.

"I'm gonna be honest," he rambled, "this isn't the response I thought I was gonna get."

Olivia looked for the car keys and located them in Peter's hands. She nodded to herself and locked the car before she shut her door. Peter was so wound up he almost didn't notice, but then he did and he stopped in his tracks. He processed for a moment, then put himself in front of her, cradling her face again. _Tell me what to do,_ he willed her, locking eyes. She smiled tiredly, reached up and took his hands from her skin. Then she led him into her building.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter bolted awake, and for a moment he didn't know why. Then he caught up and felt the soft circles being drawn on his shoulder blade.

The bedside clock read 3:28am. He didn't have a bedside clock. He rarely slept in a bed, and this one wasn't his.

He knew what he would see if he turned over, and it excited and terrified him. In a second, he remembered how he'd gotten there.

* * *

Olivia held his hand only through her front door. Once she'd closed and locked it, she let go of him and he followed her anyway, until she entered her bathroom and shut the door behind her. Peter was cast loose in her hallway, and wandered her living room and kitchen, avoiding her bedroom at all costs. He didn't know what she had in store for him. He didn't know what she was thinking or what she wanted from him. He realized, ironically, that this was what he'd wanted, for her to direct this so he _could _know these things. _Well, fuck. _He was aching for traction, to charm the situation back into his control, to make it easier.

He jumped when he heard the bathroom door open, but he was pulled to it like a magnet. He needed to see what would happen. He needed it to _happen_. Smelling like toothpaste and soap, she glanced up at him and made a beeline for her bed. His stomach dropped and his heart quickened. _I can do this,_ he thought.

In her room, she turned her back to him and shucked off her coat and shirt, her pants and shoes. It was efficient, sexless and she paid him little mind, standing there with his hands uselessly by his sides. _This couldn't be how she..._

And then she slipped a t-shirt over her head and tucked herself into bed.

Peter stood in disbelief by her bedroom door. Was he supposed to leave?

"Come," Olivia said. She lifted the covers behind her. "Sleep." _Yeah, right,_ Peter thought. He rolled his eyes, but nevertheless took off his jacket and shoes. Not pants. Not shirt. Not now. Laying his keys and wallet on her night table he crawled onto her mattress, powerless not to. Gingerly laying his body next to her, he tried not to feel so stiff when she pulled his arm over her. He didn't stop her from inching back to push their bodies together, and he didn't stop himself from holding her tightly. He couldn't help himself from following his breath along her neck, drawing his nose against her skin.

"I have no idea what you want," Peter whispered, "I just want you to know that. Maybe pity me."

He heard her low chuckle as she snuggled into her pillow. It shocked him how quickly he felt tired, and how soon after that he was falling asleep.

* * *

Now he was fully alert. She was at his back. She was touching his shoulder. _Why is this the most arousing thing I've ever felt? _He felt the pit in his stomach returning, and before it could pull him out of his reverie he shut it out completely. He leaned back toward her. Olivia's fingers moved to the front of his shoulder, pulling with just enough pressure to ask him: c_ome here. _He rolled onto his back. She touched his chest so lightly that he had to keep turning toward her to keep the sensation intact. Once he'd turned so far as to face her, her couldn't find reason to stop and he covered her body, his elbow hitting the bed just beside her arm, fencing her in. She didn't seem to mind. He dropped his head to hers, their foreheads touching as they breathed quietly together. His leg crossed both of hers, and she welcomed its fuzzy weight.

His face was warm against hers. His chest pressed into her with every inhale, and she breathed into him with every exhale. He was curled around her, huddled over her, and his hand came back once more to her face. It was gentle but cautious. His eyes felt overheated, and he could just barely force himself to look at her. Everything felt different than he was used to. When he'd decided to kiss her tonight, he hadn't counted on it going the way it had. He felt exposed, as clothed as he was, and she wasn't helping with her wide green stare.

His breath hitched in his chest, several times, and if she weren't inches from his serious face she might have thought he was laughing. His thumb touched her lips, and it tickled. She squirmed. He pressed harder against her reflexively. He felt an urge that baffled him, to bite her shoulder. _Oh God. _He felt a devastating tenderness, and realized he wasn't in complete control of it. His hand was touching her ears, and then her neck. He felt stuck in the future, watching his body catch up to where he'd already moved in his head. He was losing his mind.

Her mass beneath him felt hyperreal. His reserve was stretched taut, and she snapped it with a finger trailing down his spine.

His head sank to her chest when he shivered, and as he lifted his face he dragged his stubble across her skin. She made a tiny sound, and he smelled her, and he pressed their mouths together. Blood rushed to his brain and he felt lightheaded, clinging to her. He held perfectly still for a second before he began to actively kiss her, his shoulders knitting to both push himself against her and to hold himself back.

Olivia's hands touched his jaw, felt down his neck and brushed over his shirt. His face was so tight to hers, she could feel his eyebrows squeeze his eyes shut. She felt his shoulders tense, bracing against the sensation, lifting him away. _Not a chance,_ she thought, and her hands were in his hair, pulling him back. She pulled so hard she knew it was hurting him. _It's quite all right, _she heard Walter say in her mind, _his threshold for pain is unusually high, _and she let go immediately.

"I'm sorry," she murmured against his lips. He hummed into her words, missing her hands. His hand dug beneath her, sliding up over the back of her skull and tugging gently at her hair. _Bring. Them. Back. _She did.

The closeness of their faces was all Peter wanted, but there was still so much space around them. He was unaccustomed to this much need. It overwhelmed him. He shifted on the bed, starting to get up, and Olivia protested. "Peter," she rasped. _Peter, don't you dare go. Peter, I will use my gun. _But it was unnecessary_: _his legs straddled her and he was kneeling, his back bending like a sapling under snow until his face was touching hers again and his hands, both free, cut off her peripheral vision like blinders and it was just their eyes in the dark. He initiated their kiss again, firm and yielding.

Olivia had been in a hurry to escalate. She'd woken up wanting him, badly, and was tired of waiting. Now she was barely crawling forward, her heart breaking a little bit every time he took a breath from her mouth instead of pulling away. His face was lined heavily, his expression still intense, unrelaxed. She let her hands hold him at the temples, smoothing her thumbs across his forehead. The corners of his mouth twitched, tension bouncing from site to site instead of dissipating. She felt the trembling in his lips, the sudden downward tug of his eyebrows, and when his tears hit her cheeks she had foreseen them. She held his head steady, even as he tried to bury it in her shoulder.

Peter tried to tell himself it was the adrenaline come-down. He tried to tell himself not to be embarrassed. He tried to feel less humblingly grateful for her unshaken embrace. The feelings in his chest were eating him alive.

He cleared his throat softly. She kissed his lips again, and when his eyes sunk closed she kissed his eyelids.

"Sweetheart," he said, his voice ragged. He wanted to say things, things that had made Olivia close up. Blinking furiously, he remembered her cold _take me home_. Was this what she'd wanted? Did she want it now? Was this part of her endgame, or were they still playing? He almost didn't care. Almost. He swallowed against his desire to speak, but the words came forth anyway, rough and blunt. "I love you."


	9. Chapter 9

The back-and-forths of the previous night had given him emotional whiplash and the recoil passed through him like an EMP, doing funny things to his brain. The sudden, incredible desire to breathe her air, the tears on his face - they surprised him as much as they surprised Olivia, who had certainly never expected this tender neediness to appear from within her hard-boiled partner. She was lying beneath him, afraid to interrupt him with comfort, while he pulled through stages like colors in a rainbow. He was learning.

Peter heard himself say _I love you. _It filled the tiny space between their faces. Olivia said nothing, and his words began to suffocate him. As quickly as it had come, the wave of intensity ebbed and he felt embarrassed. Everything seemed too much. He pulled away, sitting up. The cool air of the room filled in around his body, sobering him. Rubbing his eyes, he hung his head and stared at his knees where they knelt around Olivia's cotton-clad hips. _Why wasn't she saying anything?  
_  
Olivia glanced up at him, but Peter didn't seem to be in the eye-contact business at the moment. She felt like she should say something, but she didn't want to say what he needed her to say. She'd waited so long to be in this place with him that maybe it had become too long, and her desire for him had made him too important, too intimidating, too much to deal with. Things seemed unstable, changing and vulnerable. She wanted to touch, not talk. To be in love, just not out loud. She didn't think it would help to remind him that the last person she loved out loud was both dead and not dead.

Peter shifted himself to the other side of the bed where he sat crosslegged, facing her. There was a silence as Olivia looked over the bed at him, sitting in his jeans and t-shirt with his face in his hands. He shook his head.

"Olivia Dunham," he said wryly, mustering as much good-natured self-effacement as he could, "consider yourself romanced."  
_  
_"Peter," she said quietly. It was met with a soft snort from across the bed. _Send in the clowns,_ Peter thought.

Olivia lay back on the bed with a sigh and a wry smile. "Well. This is the kind of nice, quiet awkwardness that I've been missing."

Peter looked up at her and smirked in spite of himself. He turned and pushed off the bed, pacing in front of her. Any distance was useful distance; every centimeter was a measure of control he could regain.

"I'll be honest with you," he said, "I want to take you up on whatever offer you're making, but I don't know what those terms are. Traditionally, this is a bad situation for me." Olivia saw his uncertainty in the meter of his steps. He was barefoot. It seemed so silly, him talking like that when he didn't even have his shoes on. He was _negotiating _with her. He paused and looked her in the eyes. "My pride, by the way, is completely gone. So, by all means, chime in with something encouraging. Anytime."

Olivia looked at him, barely containing her thin-lipped smile. If she spoke, she might laugh, and he wouldn't take that well. Her muteness frustrated him. He could read her, most of the time, and that was good enough. Her tightly-reined expressions and clipped words reminded him of himself. But that was then, and this is now, and _right now_ he just wanted something concrete - an _agreement _- something that meant he hadn't just opened himself in vain. He wanted her to shoulder just a fraction of the risk, like he shouldered hers every day. He leaned forward and planted his hands on her mattress, his elbows locked. He looked down the bed at her and raised an eyebrow. _Classic interrogator. _Olivia couldn't help herself anymore. She pushed her head back into the pillow, her pale neck exposed to the ceiling, and grinned.

"You know, you'd be better at my old job than I was," Peter said, his expression lightening slightly before it dropped into cautious shadows again.

"Olivia," he said darkly. "I don't need you to be head over heels, but you have to give me _something_."

She looked at him with furrowed eyebrows.

"I woke you up to have sex with you."

Peter's mouth opened slightly. He didn't quite know what to say.

"Is that concrete enough?" she asked.

Peter felt his chest tighten. It was perfectly concrete. But it wasn't enough, and he was at a loss to describe to her just why that was. He was at a loss to describe it to _himself._ Suddenly, he wanted out. He wanted to go home. He needed to escape the bizarre and unsatisfactory experience that this was turning out to be. Peter didn't understand himself. His partner, _his_ partner, had brought him into her bed, had made her intentions clear, had shared a remarkably intimate kiss and now he felt more like escaping than fucking. _All this because I want...what?_ _Reciprocation? Poor Peter, _he thought cynically.

Olivia watched him. There was a lot going on, but he was saying nothing. He'd lost the impassioned stupor but not the nakedness in his face nor the fear in his body. She wanted him less and less out of sexual heat, and more and more to comfort and reassure him. If she could get him back to touching her, she could make him better. She could show him. She could love him. _Hey. I want you. I want you around._ She tried to look at him warmly, but he wasn't looking back.

"The Peter I know would never pass this up," she said, half-joking as she stretched one leg provocatively over the other. Peter glanced up, and she saw that he looked terrible.

"I'm not that Peter," he said, his jaw set.

She sat up. He knelt on the bed again in front of her, his hands in front of him, to defend or draw near. The way the shadows fell in the room she could barely make out his features, and she could only envision his expressions by the tones in his voice.

He rubbed his palms on his thighs, anxious. The adrenaline was flooding back into him, and he sat back on his calves before his legs could begin to shake. "Olivia-" he paused here, for a long time, hovering over her name in the air. Although she couldn't see his face, he could see hers, and it was rapt. Her nervous eyes were wide but focused at him through the dark. "Olivia," he began again. He exhaled, and she mirrored him.

"You know what," he said finally, "I don't care."

She reached out for him and his hands met hers halfway. He was holding her at length, but her hands felt so warm, and then his palms were sliding down her forearms, standing the tiny blonde hairs on end. She leaned toward him, driving his hands to her shoulders, and by this time her hands were on his sides, feeling the fan of tiny muscles over his ribs through his ancient t-shirt. She could feel them ticking and quivering beneath her fingers, expanding and contracting with shallow, rapid breaths. She felt slow, heady and clear at the same time. He was making a low purring sound in the depth of his chest.

"'Livia," he said, so quietly she barely heard him. His hands hooked over her shoulders, clenching with the effort to stay in place. He felt hot and cold, filled with want but empty at the same time. He knew he was giving her one thing and receiving something different, but the weakest part of him wanted to make the trade anyway. He could hate himself tomorrow; it wouldn't be the first time.

Her touch scoured his sides, and he dismissed his hesitation. His preconscious caved, said, _just enjoy it._ And, bittersweetly, he began to.


	10. Chapter 10

The ambient light haloed in the fringe of Peter's hair, and she could see little else of his face. The street haze lay into the folds of his clothing like frost, and the sheets duned between his knees where he grew from Olivia's bed. She looked into his solemn face and felt him burning back at her. The situation was consuming every resource in his head.

_Stop thinking, Peter. _She asked him with her touch. She pulled with fingertips alone, inviting each patch of skin to creep closer. His hands on her shoulders became heavy; his elbows unlocked and no longer endeavored to keep her safely away. His thumbs slipped softly into the triangles of her neck where his pulse beat quietly against her.

Olivia rose to her knees and advanced to plant herself directly in front of Peter, her face inches away. At that small distance, she could finally see his eyes: resolved, dark, volatile. Color darkened his cheeks in the high points. The heat of his breath was sweeping her own pale cheeks and calling her blood to the surface. Outside a streetlight blinked out, flickered back in, and the skeleton lace of winter trees fell across his skin and shirt. She looked down at the pattern, her hands wicking up his body to trace the branches. The rise and fall of his chest synchronized with the breaths that hushed past her ear.

Drawn in, watching the shadows wave and roll across him, she was hypnotized, her reverie broken by the bunching of fabric over Peter's forearms as they pushed his shirt up and over his head. She hadn't even noticed his hands leave her, but she followed them with her eyes as they stripped him. Peter didn't toss the shirt aside, but let it drop between them against her thighs instead. It was warm. She hadn't expected it to be so warm. There wasn't enough room between them for her to look down and see where it was nestled against her but her instinct was to try, and the tilt of her head touched her nose to his skin. _His skin._ So warm it made her nose feel cold. Her hands had been satellites around his body since his shirt had come off, and the jolt of contact sent them further into orbit, away from him.

"You know," Peter whispered gruffly into her temple, "_der Punkt dieser Tat ist sich zu berühren._"

She had time to wonder briefly where his hands were before they stung her, palms spreading over her hips. Half through her panties and half upon her skin, his heat was his acquiescence, his agreement. _I'm with you. _Olivia lifted her head.

His shirt had left his hair in odd static shocks, hazy and strange, and _finally_ there was something on his face besides resistance. He looked intently at her, his eyes as heated as the rest of him. Grazing his shoulders with her hovering hands, Olivia saw him smile and shake his head.

"'Livia," he said, and she felt his hands on her hips tighten, his grip pulling her hard toward himas he leaned into her. Their hips were flush first, the firm contact chasing up their bellies, and when Olivia finally pressed her hands against the skin of his back it was only her t-shirt that separated them. The pressure was delicious. She arched her back slightly, asking his hand to the small of her back. He obeyed without thought, pinning her against him as her spine curled, her head falling back just enough for him to kiss her open neck.

Involuntarily her body leapt, her collarbones rising to defend her skin from the grind and burn of his rough cheeks and the equal sting of his startlingly igneous lips. He held her still, sternum to sternum, his accelerating heartbeat outpaced — but just barely — by hers. His lips swept her throat, pausing in places to apply his incisors, eliciting sounds like half-naked words.

Her legs had slipped against his, their knees abutting, her slight thighs pressing into his through his jeans. She dropped a hand to his hip and grated her nails along the denim. The heavily textured sensation carried to his bones, and he sighed darkly against her jaw. She took care that he received her shaky breath in return, spilling it down his back and standing the hair on the nape of his neck on end. His response was to redouble his efforts, bringing his fingers to run trails over her ears and lips and down her neck to the collar of her shirt.

His breathing was changing, expanding and pushing him more aggressively into her, controlling her diaphragm and shortening her own breaths. It dizzied her, put lights in her eyes and made her feel ethereally loose of limb, easy and graceful. She reached with her teeth for the pink edges of his ear, nipping and licking, feeling the muscles in his jaw moving with his ministrations to her.

Peter hit a sweet spot on the top of her shoulder and she let her body fall back against his arm, pushing her breasts up tightly against the cotton stretch of her tee. She wanted him to see she was more than suits and nervous casework. She was more than the friend asleep in his car. She wanted him like he wanted her, right down to the - "Oh," she gasped, the syllable melting into a deep and heartfelt sound as his palm rubbed over her breast. Her eyes flickered closed and when she opened them again he was holding that hand at the back of her neck, allowing her backward lean to provide the momentum and letting her body descend into the field of blankets.

She watched his face as he spilled her onto her own bed. For all his initial hesitation, he was purposeful, directed and intent. As she snuggled back into her comforter, he slipped his hands from beneath her. She crossed her arms over her stomach, watching. Waiting. The room was still so dark - which made things easier in a way - but he was blue and pale and it was like being with his ghost. The thought made her sad in a way she couldn't explain, and so she reached for her bedside lamp and turned it on.

Peter had sidled off the bed, taking off his pants and socks. He looked up when the light clicked on, raising his eyebrows. He hesitated with his boxers, a brown, soft-looking pair, and looked apologetically up at her.

"We'll get to these," he said, smiling, and she smiled back more broadly than his comment warranted. He left his clothes in a pile on her floor and came toward her. "Now, let's be equitable," he said, his palms held out to his sides as he eyed her shirt. Olivia rolled her eyes, smiling wider, and felt only a hint of the nervousness that she thought would have consumed her in this situation. The heaviness of his mood had lifted though she couldn't tell why, and he was looking at her in a way that made her feel like he'd been honest when he said he _didn't care_ that she didn't say...

He approached her soundlessly until he leaned into her bed, the springs creaking gently like night frogs. He leaned over her, looking into her, and she saw his deep eyes and strong shoulders and the smile dropped quietly from her face. His little mouth curled up with benevolence and his lithe neck curved down toward her, extended and open and graceful. When he spoke, she thought she could see the words come up from inside him.

"I love you," he said again, but this time his voice was clear and modulated, neither lost nor apprehensive. On the other hand, there was a green flicker as Olivia looked away. _Peter, don't. Peter, we're so close._

Peter reached for her and brought her back with a gentle touch to her temple. "That wasn't a question. I'm not waiting for an answer." He took her hand in his and was flooded unexpectedly with a memory of her on a table in the lab, Walter imploring, '_Help her, son.'_ While he'd hesitated, he'd known his father was right and that even against his expectations Olivia would grip his palm and refocus. He'd just known, like he knew her now.

It had thrown him when she hadn't responded the first time, because he'd known it was in her to say. It had shaken his trust in himself, in what he knew and how he'd read her. But he'd taken his own hand in that way and forced himself to look past his fear of being wrong at the way she _was _responding. Her flush, her shining eyes, the spikes of her eyelashes that slicked together. Her body rising against him, trying to show him the things about herself she couldn't say. Her nervous swallows, the stress pinch of her eyebrows, the regretful twist of her lips as she looked away from him.

A pianist, he could read her as if she herself were sitting on the bench, her hands on the keys. She was playing to him, her high notes singing and her low notes vibrating endlessly into the air. She was reaching him, and he was proud of himself for seeing it. Whatever her reasons for not speaking, he was confident that he was not one.

"Just...keep it in mind," he said, a half-smile appearing momentarily for her, and then he lowered his eyes to her body. His hand slid from her cheek to her arm, rubbing the terminal fold of her shirt. He was calm although his heart was racing, his excitement tempered by his delight. "I'm going to take this off now."


	11. Chapter 11

Olivia's eyes were grey in shadow, green in street lights and hazel in tungsten.

Peter's eyes were blue in the morning, slate in the evening and warm black as they watched her bare skin emerge from beneath her shirt.

Olivia's face was covered by her shirt as she was exposed to him, blind as he watched but knowing exactly what he was seeing. What she _wanted_ to see was his face as the inches were uncovered, the melting and burning as rib-by-rib she became carnal knowledge to him. Instead she had white cotton rubbing her forehead and the bridge of her nose and putting her eyebrows into disarray. It insulated her face, which felt feverish enough already, and it was like being in a separate place - a little cave with Peter outside peering in, slowly entering, walking toward her in the dark and reaching out as she lay back on the rocks. The yellow light from her bedside table filtered in through the folds, glowing and carrying the sound of his exhales, sweet and appreciative and burdened by the iron drag of his desire. Her canine-baring grin bit back fear, delirious anticipation and a desperately grateful relief. _He knew. He already knows._

His hands were pushing at her shirt but only incidentally as they tallied ribs, working their way up. He took advantage of her temporary mask, staring as he didn't believe she'd let him, licking his lips as he encountered the first hint of her breasts. He sighed open-mouthed, shaping it into her name as an afterthought, and he felt her humid breath steam the fabric beside his left hand. He sent that hand further than her shirt revealed, slipping over her left breast with a slow caress extending to her collarbone, her rose-quartz nipple sliding against the velvet underside of his wrist. Her instinct was to arch further, rising up, but she fought it hard and stayed quite still, breathless but breathing, waiting and needing.

Weight shifted on the mattress and she saw his shadow move. His sleek body bent down to her and the next thing she felt was his nose making way for his lips on the tantalized frontier of her skin. She was smiling as hard as she could; it was starting to feel like a fearful grimace, an animal warning, a ritual mask. It could not contain her for long.

He nuzzled into her, his face pushing the hem further so he could reach the curve of her breasts with his lips. At contact her eyebrows knit together, her grin lost its way and her jaw opened slightly into tense silence. He drove the sound out of her with his tongue, amplifying his kisses with its roughness.

Her arms were above her head by the time the shirt got to her shoulders. Through careful maneuvering she exposed her mouth. The shirt strapped over the rest of her face and was pulled taut by the additional width of her arms. His breath was his herald: she felt his smile hit her lips and she fell into stride, matching his pressure and feeling out the rest. It was slow, soft, too slow, too soft. She pushed toward him, mouth open, tongue and all. His reciprocal push was as hard as she asked, beginning an extremely satisfying burn where his stubble etched her skin. It was good; it was very good. She felt strong.

He slipped his hands into her sleeves and pushed the shirt to her wrists, where she made short work of it. In the time it took for that little white shirt to hit the ground she had her frustrated hands around his hot neck, making pale fingerprints in the red skin. He panted, futilely trying to cool himself as his temperature ratcheted; he could feel the beginnings of sweat at his temples. With her newfound leverage she pulled herself up, pulled him down, pressed herself into him and forced depth into their kisses. Peter responded without thought, without hesitation, without breathing. He poured his body into her mouth, all the tension and all the desire, showing her with burning lips and smoky breath how much and for how long he'd wanted her.

Olivia melted. It was a cliche, she knew, but cliches were based in truth and this one was based in her soaked panties and the feeling of everything inside her liquefying at once. Her body was a rainbow arc, reds and whites and pinks pressed up against his olive skin, and he was against her with such force that their colors might mix. Their faces were too close for focus but Olivia tried anyway, her open eyes and confused pupils frustrating her, and when she pulled away to catch her breath her need to see him was her excuse.

"Peter," she pleaded, and there was no cover, no obfuscation. Peter shook. His eyes wouldn't focus, except in second-long flashes that gave him momentary access to her heavy-lidded, swollen-lipped face. She was like a winter storm, insular and blinding. He floundered through on instinct alone, giving her what she asked for, responding where she called. And then there was the response he didn't try to control, the determined thrusts of his hips and the drive in his brain that kept asking, _what else? What else?_

But it turned out she asked for everything she wanted.

Her fingers on his chest, playing over his nipples.

Her hands on his belly, moving down.

Her grasp on him, making his boxers irrelevant.

When he came he was joyful, territorial, blind and crawling.

When she came she was possessive, possessed, lost and found.

Neither one wanted to say the first word as they held each other in the warm lamplight. Olivia looked up at his face silently. Peter's face was pale, open and as sincere as she'd ever seen it. He touched his faintly sweaty nose to hers and she closed her eyes against the touch.

"Hey," he whispered roughly. She shivered. "'Livia," he kept on. The tone of his voice was so low, so loving and alive; it made her ache. It was an ache that pulled at her everywhere, in places just used and places she'd barely seen her whole life. She didn't want him to continue. She tried to kiss him, and through her lips he mumbled,

"I love you,"

and the crying started in earnest, so hard she could barely breathe.


	12. Chapter 12

Her breath paused in the unexpected heave of her chest and she tried to turn her face into her pillow. She expected him to stop her, to hold her in place and tell her not to be afraid, not to hide from him. But Peter was off her in a moment and she was free to roll over and turn her back to him, curling her arms and legs up to her chest. She turned her face into the shadow of her shoulder and let her face contort in all the ways she didn't want him to see, her lips pulled back and her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide and biting at the mattress. There were surprisingly few tears, and she felt not at all sad. What she felt was between, like she'd felt when he'd walked her to her door. Between herself and the world. Between her body and his. Between wanting and believing. Her body voiced its shock in the rolling waves of exhausting over-sensitivity, in the face of which she could only wait and let go.

He let her be overwhelmed in private, and for that she was grateful. She heard her bedroom door open as he left, and then heard a deliberately loud opening and closing of her bathroom door. He was there, and he would be there as she took her moments.

Olivia let her breath return as loud as it needed to, and didn't try to muffle the sound. It didn't take long, just a minute or two and she was coming back together. She kept her head firmly and safely against her pillow as she let her eyes relax into the room. It was warm from their bodies, warm from the lamp, warm from her feelings toward the man in her bathroom. The windows stretched elegantly into the ceiling, portals to the frozen stars. The contrast between the cold outside and the warmth inside made her cozy and soothed her raw feelings. She let her legs stretch and slide into the cool parts of the sheets, the muscles different, loose and tight at the same time.

Peter looked at himself in her bathroom mirror. He was red and overheated. And naked. He looked thinner than he remembered himself, but he felt stronger. His muscles were threaded with the memories of capability, once used only for selfish, violent defense, and now - he hoped - for something better. He wanted to give her his best, always, and his best could be very, very good. He raised his chin, dropped his shoulders and tried to see himself as she saw him. As he _wanted _her to see him. He wondered if she saw his mind behind his eyes, or his strength behind his obeisance. He didn't know if his face communicated the way he was mentally eradicating the variables from her safety, or if his posture belied how prepared he was to step in front of her if need be. He rubbed a hand over his chest; it was shining with sweat. Theirs. A smile broke on his face, and he couldn't stop it and didn't try. He reached into her shower and turned on the water.

Olivia heard the shower start and knew that her solitude would last for at least another few minutes. She turned back her comforter and walked to one of the tall, serene windows in her wall. The wood floors creaked under her feet. Moon and streetlight hit her front while the lamp caught her back and she was cradled in light, blue to yellow, and she looked like a luxury car with every curve illuminated. She looked out at the city and up at the sky and was satisfied with the dark and sparkling world.

Peter stood under the water, letting the soap rinse away and thinking that next he would dress, go home, have a drink. And then he stopped, actually turned around in the shower to process without the water thundering in his ears, because this wasn't a woman from the bar and his usuals were not applicable. He stared at the tiles, thinking. She might want him to stay. She might not. And then there was tomorrow, and the next day. There was always the chance that she'd _Olivia _her way out of it with a nod of her head and a weird expression and a simple refusal to discuss it. But that wouldn't happen. Peter turned the water hotter and let it sting him._ That won't happen_. Because there was also what _he _wanted, and _he_ wanted to stay, and by God he was tenacious. As far as she could _Olivia _her way out of it, he could _Peter _his way back in. He could outlast her anxieties, her fears, her doubts. He would be there in the morning.

_John is in the shower_, Olivia thought. The thought occurred to her out of nothing, coming in through the window from the city, bringing with it a wave of melancholy. It felt plausible enough. John was in the shower, like he had been before. She couldn't tell what was more responsible for her sudden and unexpected sadness: that John might be in her shower, or that he was not and would never be again. If the water shut off and his face appeared in her door, what would she do? How would she feel? _I don't know_, she thought, but the truth was that she didn't want to know, because it might be ugly for her, especially now. She pressed her forehead to the window. The cold felt good. She watched her breath fog the glass, distracting herself with the crystals that appeared and were gone. And the answer came to her like the question, on her evaporating breath: if John were at her door, she'd love him. She'd love him, like she'd always love him, and she'd call for Peter.

Olivia heard the bathroom door open again, Peter's quiet footsteps, the soft knock on her bedroom door and him moving through it. She turned and there he was, hips wrapped in an old, thin towel. He stood there, watching her. He was almost smiling. He was beautiful. Olivia didn't quite know what to do with him, so she just waited.

"Your turn?" he said finally. She ducked her head, bashful, and said, "okay," as she slipped past him into the hall. Peter smiled then. _'Livia._

In the shower, she clutched her hands over her chest and, no-one watching, laughed and laughed and laughed.

Afterward, she looked for things to do in the bathroom because she didn't know what she would do in her bedroom. He would be there, and she would be embarrassingly awkward. John had made it easy for her-always gregarious, always initiating, always taking the lead. Even Lucas had helped her, in his way; he was entertaining, and when he wasn't his mistreatments gave her something from which to react. These men had guided her, given her a topiary frame for her personality and made her feel adept. But Peter was quiet and Peter was observant and Peter would wait and see who she really was. She wasn't sure who he would find.

Hair combed, deodorant applied, Olivia ran out of options. She stepped out of the bathroom into a shockingly cold hallway. Peter had turned off the bedroom light; shower steam condensed around her and for a moment she was in the cloudy night sky itself.

"Peter?" she called into her dark room. She stepped inside cautiously and didn't see him anywhere. Maybe he'd gone.

But he hadn't.

"Down here," he said softly, and she saw the top of his head over the edge of her mattress.

Her comforter was on the floor with him, made into a nest that wrapped around him from shoulders to feet. He'd opened the window in front of him, frigid air drifting in with the clarity of winter. When she rounded the corner of her bed, he opened his arm to her like a wing, blanket draped. She hesitated and he scoffed.

"Will you_ hurry up_?"

She dropped her towel and scuttled into the nook he'd created. He folded her inside, closing his arm and its wall of warm goosedown firmly around her. Her shower-warmth (and his) kept them toasty and pink as the cold poured over their faces. A spiciness was carried in with the cold, smelling like bread and smoke and reminding Olivia of their night rides. She snuggled closer to him, not restrained by any seat belt, and when her arms and breasts touched his bare sides she remembered that they were both naked, that they had just... She let her head rest against his. She felt the heat of his cheek without touching. His heartbeat echoed between their ears. She could see the stars. From the floor, they seemed a longer way up.

Their breath iced in the air. They were so distant from Boston even though they could see the buildings, concrete in the distance. Neither of them spoke.

Distant traffic hummed. Trees hushed in the wind.

Peter matched his breaths to Olivia's. It relaxed her. Even in the car it had relaxed her to hear him breathe in time with her. If he got it right he could lead her: deeper, longer, fuller.

He wanted to touch her face but the blanket kept a warm seal around them and he didn't want to break it. He turned his head slightly, gently nuzzling his forehead against her warm, wet hair. She turned into it, his cold nose touching her cheek. He sighed a low, contented sound and kissed her firmly on the temple.

"'Livia," he whispered. Her eyes locked on the sky, focused into space, but she smiled a little and tugged gently on his arm where hers entwined. She was listening. "Ready for bed?" He leaned down to catch even the faintest response, and she looked at him with eyes as expansive as Andromeda. For a moment they hovered, faces barely separate, his fierce, quiet love burning up her insecurities like flash paper.

She nodded.


End file.
